Magic Moste Evile

Caspian lay in a dark room, bleeding out on the stone cold floor which was littered with dirt, broken glass and alchemical tools. He was covered in cuts, had a sword wound on his abdomen, and a piece of glass lodged firmly in his left eye. He had used all his remaining mana to warp the 10 miles to a hidden ruin where he had set up his temporary camp, but he couldn't concoct an elixir, nor did he have any healing abilities. He lay on floor, waiting for his own death. "I know you're there", he said. There was no response. He did not feel any pain as he lay on the ground, just disgust and regret. Disgust with himself, on how he had lost to just a few dozen rank 5 and rank 6 mages, despite being a rank 7 himself. And regret, on how he had yet again wasted his chance at life. A tall figure wearing an old, hooded cloak walked towards him slowly, carrying a scythe in left hand on which nothing was visible but bone. Caspian smiled inwardly, and breathed his last. The hooded figure waited patiently in front of him, and when he saw Caspian's eyes had lost the light they once had, he slashed his scythe and opened a rip in space. Caspian's soul was sucked through and soon after, he saw a light in the distance.